Sports Car Forum - MotorWorld.net - Bugatti Veyron

I found this very interesting article on the Veyron today, hopefully not a repost.

http://www.tvrfreak.com/blog/phatrides/

It's a long read, and at first seems to just be a bash of the Veyron, but I think it is actually a quite balanced article, so you Veyron lovers don't stop reading after one paragraph like you might want to...its well worth the read! 8)

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For the vulgar tycoon who thinks of crassness as a status symbol, you don’t get a more fitting ride than a Bugatti Veyron. Not without wings, anyways, and vulgar tycoons don’t care about jets. You see, nobody sees you as you go whizzing overhead in a jet. No, you need to trundle up to a fancy club in Soho in a Bugatti.Veyron, very, very slowly. It’s the fastest car in the world, but who cares? Certainly not the owners. In this car, you go slow enough to make sure people see you not noticing them. It’s all about making impressions—all the wrong ones. This car is a misfit, pure and simple. It is fast, but too heavy for the racetrack to be anything more than a trackday toy. And on the street, you would need to go to a failed state to get halfway to its performance limits. You could also have your own country, but people who do typically don’t invest their considerable wealth in roads that benefit the public. Field artillery pieces, chateaus in Switzerland, and a few container ships’ worth of trinkets seem to be the going currency.. But I digress. Today I am going to tell you about the Bugatti Veyron, the fastest, most powerful production car currently being made. It’s also the most expensive car on the market. If you have to ask, well, that means you think about money. Sorry, this car is not for you.

So, what’s the Veyron really like? How do you find out? Who do you ask? Do they even allow a journalist to borrow one? Does it come with a personal attendant? Two? Four? I don’t know anyone who owns a Veyron. I know sensible people, and this is not a car for sensible people. Or even sane people. It does crazy speeds, and makes its own weather. It looks like a beetle, one that’s been stomped on repeatedly and survived because it is the most muscular beetle in the world. Proper ‘ard, as they say, and they are not kidding! And it comes with a two-tone paint scheme that, impossibly, succeeds in making it even uglier.

So, what do you do to get your hands on a Veyron? Why would you want to? For speed and exclusivity I guess. Enough speed and enough exclusivity to make Enzo Ferrari and Ayrton Senna fight to be your best friend, were they still living (yes, I know I am going to hell). I like engineering, and I love over-engineering. To give you an idea of how over-engineered the Veyron is, consider this: Its gearbox took 20 engineers, working day and night, and Saturdays, and Sundays, 6 years to get right. Yes, it works. Flawlessly.

Getting my hands on a Veyron, ultimately, turned out to be far simpler than I thought, and I imagine, in the rarefied air breathed by Veyron owners, it is always like this for similarly impossible requests. These probably probably have Maybach owners for butlers! Yours truly placed a call to an influential person. Successive telephone calls were then made to ever more influential people, even SMS was judiciously employed. One day, the right head nodded in the right direction. It was as if the clouds parted and a bright ray of light shone down on me, and followed me around everywhere I went. I became a Chosen One, a celebrity among the rich and beautiful of the automotive paparazzi, and I made sure everyone around me knew it. It really was quite special. Yes, it’s true. You can be crass and special.

There can be no rational reason for owning a Veyron. All owners merely want one. Or ten. For the price, north of a million quid, you get a special key, a glass of cheap champagne and German-speaking people dressed in Dr. No smocks fuss around you for a bit and then melt away. You also get a very, very fast car you are going to drive very, very slowly in front of fancy nightclubs. It could conveivably spend its life parked in front of yachts. It’s that kind of car.

When the special, special day came, I was doubly unlucky. No Germans fussed over me. Instead the car was delivered to my doorstep in a car-hauler. It happened at 3am, and the delivery truck driver and his assistant, bless their hearts, did not care a smidgen about waking up my neighbors, family, pets, even the local constable. I suppose I shouldn’t mind, but I have yet to meet the good PC’s gaze as I drive through my village, his stony stare filling my heart with the bleakness of a Scottish isle. And that’s when I am driving my Golf. I have seriously considered parking the Veyron in a neighboring village, and taking a taxi to get to it. Yes, it’s that kind of car.

That crisp wintry night, with the car crouching in my driveway, I could only manage a further two hours of sleep. Dawn must have been creeping over the horizon somewhere East of China when I set off, a cold, inky blackness all around me except for the yellow string of sodium lamps showing me which way the road curved. It was freezing, pitch dark, and misty, and I have never been so awake in my life. Yup, it is that kind of car.

Starting the car is a doddle. It stops and goes like a family saloon, as long as you press the right button. In a car like this, there can be no starting mechanism other than a big, red button. Bigger than the one that Bush’s lackey presents to him when Saddam’s been especially naughty. You stab it authoritatively, and the beast haughtily considers your request. You hear distant noises, then a click and whirr, and then, very purposeful-sounding engine noises as the beast awakens. When the car starts, there is a precise rifle-bolt clack as something slides into something else, and a muted, constant bellow surrounds the car, scaring away even the air around it. It is the best de-misting procedure ever. It’s simply orgasmic. I started it again and again and happiness flooded my being!

So starting is an adventure. Reversing, however, requires that you hop out and check behind the car for any obstacles. Unless you don’t care because you are more outrageous than Elton John and have nine more Veyrons to spare. It was not a problem in my driveway, angled as it is to the road, but it was a huge problem everywhere else. Huge. This car is begging for a rear video camera, even if it adds six ounces to the weight. You can always save that much weight by yanking out the useless (but eye-wateringly expensive) rearview mirror and throwing it away. Who cares, you have nine more!

Turning the wheels at low speeds feels like pushing a car on a turntable. The wheels turn, but very grudgingly. Slow speed maneuvering is not this car’s forte. “You are not supposed to be turning such wide tyres at low speed, you oaf. Don’t you have your own double-wide road?” it seems to demand through the very heavy steering wheel. I apologize to the car. And I mean it sincerely. I resolve to buy the M1 and M40 within the week. They will do for now.

Right, then, we are off in the world’s most expensive production car. It’s so expensive that you can’t think about it. If you did, you would run crying to mummy. Kidnappers would mount military-scale operations to detain you against your will, and they would actually be nice about cutting off your ear or finger. They might even let you go so they can grab you again in the future. Even if you were anonymous and safe, how do you toss a million pounds’ worth of car around in public? Suppose you had a hundred million pounds. Each one of those hundred millions would still buy a serious amount of quality time in the Caribbean, with some very desirable company. Even your wife would probably go along willingly. So a hundred of that is a hell of a lot of money. Too much to think about, really, so you don’t. You concentrate on the driving, and at this hour, on this road, driving this car does make you invincible. Speed cameras don’t work when you go faster than the speed of light. Even light doesn’t. So don’t worry and let it rip.

Then you think about slowing down. At 220, it’s a scary prospect. Especially when the brakes work oddly. The car does eventually slow down and wait for you. But your adrenaline rush will make you sick. You ride it out till your limbs stop trembling and motor control returns to your lips, eyes, nose, and sphincter. In a sick, twisted way, I started to enjoy the nausea. My god it’s fast! Faster than physics should allow. Faster than Anna Nicole Smith files court appeals. Faster than Kate Moss’s nostrils over a couple of lines of Columbia’s finest. I am being silly now. But the way that speed builds in this car, and keeps building, is far more silly. It’s faster than a hurricane. And then you find you still have a couple of gears to go. I just don’t understand how it’s legal. There is no way, flat out, you could see a lorry jack-knifing 400 metres down the road and take corrective action before you have passed it and are halfway through the next county.

The Bugatti Veyron is the fastest thing I have ever driven. Err, piloted. All of a sudden, the owners’ disinterest in airplanes makes perfect sense. This is the only winged chariot they need. It too needs air sickness bags. If my ears weren’t bleeding from the last rush of acceleration , I could even think of another joke.

“Right, so what about handling?” you ask, being the proper geezer that you are. The Veyron turns. And sticks Incredibly, despite its 4,000 lb heft, the car turns on a dime and holds whatever line you imagine. It is nimble and sticky, even on worn tyres, and does what you ask without bother. Wow. German engineering triumphs over physics again. No wonder we don’t like the Germans. I bet you I could drive this car upside down. Even after I exit the Limehouse tunnel, which is approaching at a speed that has my wife crying in her sleep because I have overtaken the future and God is sending worried messages to her. I think I hurtled past Him at 210mph. Again and again. The rush of speed is so intoxicating, so energizing, you could use this car for therapy. I don’t know if women like it, but more importantly, it absolutely makes you stop caring about anything like that. This car makes your soul soar every time you stab the accelerator and churn the world backwards under your feet.

Forget God, it’s time to find myself. And that means slowing down. I press on the brakes again, tentatively (as you do at serious speeds), and it feels like the brake pedal is fixed in place. Worried, I press harder, and all of a sudden, it seems the car has stopped but I haven’t. I strain against the belts, and it’s not fun. They dig into my chest, but the last time my neck hurt this much I was in a rather precarious position in a Thai boudoir. I didn’t say anything then, and I won’t admit it now. The brakes are fantastic, but the initial feel and engagement point need work. As it is, they are dangerous. Shoddy German engineering? The Veyron breaks new ground in every way.

So, having crisscrossed all of southern England and crossed the channel twice before breakfast, what do I have to say for the car and for myself? I would never own this car because, even if I could afford the asking price, it outdoes America in petrol consumption and it is so barmy, so over the top, that one-handed alligator-wrestling would seem tame in comparison. The car’s acceleration is simply, incomprehensibly ferocious. Its brakes and brake feel are both scary. The handling and the transmission are precise and good, and stay out of your way. You just wish for landing lights as you gobble up entire continents. Before breakfast. And again after dinner because it becomes part of your sexual routine. This car is addictive. You know what I mean.

The Veyron is as German as it gets. Which is not always a good thing, The steering wheel, for instance, is uninspired as only a German product can be. No thumbrests, no dimples. A little too thin to hold comfortably or to give you the feel that it helps you direct 1000 bhp. It is also too weighty at low speeds. The one in my car was the same shade of grey that graces 90% of all BMW and Mercedes cars ever made, it sames,. Of course, they call it silver, titanium, arctic green, and all sorts of other nice names. I call it gypsy tooth grey. Or gypsy tooth green. Take your pick. Oh well, it works beautifully at high speeds, so I shouldn’t complain too much. Actually I should. I paid a million quid for this. Yes I know I am just a journalist. Just suspend your disbelief and join me in fantasizing about actually being one of the silk-shirt sporting, butterssoft driving-shoe wearing set. I insist.

If I was obscene enough to actually acquire one of these land missiles, the first thing I would do is redesign the cabin. The entire interior is a strange twilight zone of diamond plate steel panels, sumptuous, soft surfaces and hard, bare plastics. There are more lights than Tokyo’s Ginza, more colours than a Crayola factory. Who thought of this? And who approved it? It simply cannot be German. Actually, I am right about that. The car is produced just over the French border in a small town called Molsheim. It is claimed that the factory’s management is German. Twilight zone.

I actually had the good fortune to visit Molsheim a few months ago. The first batch of cars was near completion, and the factory was a beehive of activity, “doctors” in white coats bustling around. It was a spotless, immaculate factory in every regard except for two strange things.

First, there were giant, organic-looking pieces of what I presume to be the exhaust, engine and transmission lying about everywhere. Apparently, the doctors did real surgery on the cars, and they didn’t clean up afterwards. It was bizarre to see so many exotic-looking innards scattered about while the cars were peacefully hand-assembled nearby. The discarded parts were simply massive. What happened? Does so much break in testing? I asked, but I never did get an answer.

Two, it seems they drank beer instead of water. I am not kidding. I did not find a single water fountain, and when I asked, I was directed to a free beer dispenser. This might actually explain a lot about the cars that burble out of the massive doors at the rate of five a week. Beer? I just don’t know. Twilight zone.

The Veyron will cosset your average mental billionaire and one of his mistresses in the finest styling a German committee is capable of producing. This, unfortunately, is not usually a compliment, and it certainly isn’t one in the case of the Veyron. You have all seen it in pictures by now. Next major show, you will probably see it in the flesh. If you want to. If you are at all like me, handsome looks aside, you will sidle past the Bugatti stand, casting sideways glances from lowered eyes and absolutely refusing to acknowledge that it impresses you. If you see anyone sitting in the car, rejoice in the knowledge that they are sitting in a singularly uninspired and cluttered interior. Does that make you feel better? Good. I understand. Yes, these cars shouldn’t be released to the public. It’s ugly and you don’t want one. Right, I agree with you.

My test car had a black lower body and a light blue upper half that was the same blue as Paul Newman's eyes when he used to be a good driver. Like his driving ability, some of components on the car were long past their use by date on specimen that Bugatti dropped off in their moment of largesse (and in the hopes of a favourable writeup, I am sure). A knackered clutch and tires more worn than Paris Hilton’s bedsheets put paid to any hopes I had of testing car’s absolute top speed. I didn’t get beyond 220 mph, and that is nothing to sneeze at unless you own a McLaren F1. Unfortunately, if you actually own a Veyron, everyone you know will have a McLaren. And two gorgeous women companions they can take with them in their venerable two-seater. Meanwhile, you have one spare seat, and it’s empty because you claim you no longer care. Well stop looking then.

The McLaren, ten years on, is still at the top, at least in my book. It is better than the Veyron because of its pedigree, practicality, and purposefulness. The McLaren is also British. The Veyron is like a serious schoolboy who does well and becomes an investment banker. It is smart, but also rotund after years of privilege and work and no play. The McLaren is a football player. If you were a woman, or a man for that matter, who would you rather date? I rest my case.

Speaking of practicality, every time I tried to get into the Veyron, I wished for another Veyron to ferry me across its vast sill. It was wider than a sumo wrestler's commode. When I finally did manage to clamber into the seats that made even my farts worth real money, the view was adequate, but inadequate for the speeds this car is capable of. Am I nitpicking? Possibly. Shouldn’t these simple details be perfect in a car like this?

Ulitmately, it's all a bit too American. And not Italian enough. That makes it, gulp, French. With German cousins to boot. Need I say more? Yes, there's gobsmacking, retina-flattening acceleration, but it's coupled with ugly styling and bad brakes. It does achieve spectacular performance, but with brute, overwhelming force rather than grace and athleticism. There is an engineering beauty to it, but it’s all muscular legs, not Slavic cheekbones. The Brits will like it. The Americans will buy it. The Italians will despise it. The Japanese will take pictures. That leaves the Russians, and not even TVR cares about them,

I never did like the French. They eat frogs. I like the Bugatti but it’s an exercise in pointlessness—just like eating frogs' legs.

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:lol: on the last line...